


gone down on your dirty mind

by troubles



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: 5 Times, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 17:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14407284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubles/pseuds/troubles
Summary: or: 5 times Ronan Lynch doesn’t bottom and one time he does.





	gone down on your dirty mind

**Author's Note:**

> the truth is this: i found this fic in my google docs, and shit, i wrote it march 25, 2015, which is well before trk. not that this matters, because it's a pwp, quick & dirty. not especially good, but it's done, and i figured it'd be more useful out in the world than sitting in an untitled folder!
> 
> and, if you're curious (and because i'm really bad at coming up with them), the title for this one is from "skin on skin" by queens of the stoneage.

 

5\. 

Adam’s rubbing his eyes and fighting the urge to nod off even as Gansey’s sat down beside him at the desk and filling him in on the (very) little they’ve discovered today.

What happened was this:  Ronan, Blue, and Gansey went back into the caves looking for anything they may have missed in Piper Greenmantle’s wake.

Adam went to work.

It’s funny, Adam thinks, that maybe if this were even a few months ago, the thought of Ronan, Gansey, and Blue – Blue especially – meandering through woods, through caves, through Cabeswater, without him would have made his blood run cold. Jealousy’s no stranger to Adam Parrish; it looks good on him, he feels like he’s been swathed in it all his life. But lately it feels less suffocating, like it’s rescinded enough to allow more clarity. So when Blue offered they wait until evening, until after Adam finished at the factory, Adam replied, “no, why waste daylight when it’s too valuable in those parts?”

It doesn’t mean he wasn’t surprised to find that he meant it. It doesn’t mean he didn’t think at all about the three of them bonding without him. But it does mean there are better things to think about these days, like looming academic deadlines and what comes next for him after Aglionby. They’re closer to Glendower than they’ve ever been, and it no longer feels like Gansey’s pet project alone.

And Adam supposes his mind drifts often to Ronan Lynch, and how they’re closer than they’ve ever been as well, like the small drops of blood they spilled on the concrete have merged into a tiny pool of its own, forming some kind of irrevocable connection. At work, Adam remembers the dolly crashing and both of them landing on the gravel, turning over to lie on their backs. Ronan’s breathless laugh and the way he gently bumped Adam’s bruised knuckles with his own, a mockery of Gansey's reassuring gesture, what he uses to say  _ good job, sport _ . Adam thinks about how Ronan doesn’t mind sleeping on the floor, how he drinks OJ straight from the carton, how his body is built like a sort of dream thing in itself, taller than Adam is, with ridiculously broad shoulders and a muscled back that tapers down to the curve of his ass. It's a form that commands a presence that Adam knows his own could never achieve, despite his own height and the muscle definition that comes with physical labour.

“So basically,” Gansey’s voice shakes him from his reverie. “What we found when we went back was another set of footprints. The size looks like it could belong to a woman, but we’ve definitely ruled out both Blue and Maura. Not small enough. ”

This is going to be more of Gansey telling him they're close, but they're missing some vital piece. Adam's more than a little sick of this puzzle, of feeling like the box never came with enough pieces to begin with. 

“Kavinsky was in love with you.” And that’s Blue’s voice that Adam hears, from Gansey’s bed where she’s sitting thigh-to-thigh with Ronan Lynch.

“Blue, there’s a difference between wanting to fuck someone and being in love.”

Adam clears his throat. 

"So aside from Greenmantle’s wife… did she leave any other trace?” Adam asks Gansey, widening his tired eyes in an effort to both keep awake and convey his attention.

“What?” Blue’s voice sounds genuinely shocked. “You knew? And you still hung out with him?”

Ronan shrugs, “Well, he had something I wanted.”

Gansey spins in his chair to add his own input, and Adam’s glad he wasn’t the only one so overtly eavesdropping.

“Blue, honestly, did you hear him speak at all? There’s no other reason to be so interested in someone’s… private life.”

Adam has to strain his hearing to decipher her words when, quieter, she says, “Did you guys have a thing?”

“What the hell makes you think  _ that _ ?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Adam can tell she’s trying not to go shrill at Ronan’s insinuation that she’s abstracted the real, that perhaps she’s overstepped her boundaries. The tension between the two has alleviated considerably in the past few months, and privately Adam thinks they’re more alike than either of them believes, but it doesn't mean things are perfect. Not yet. 

“He acted like a jilted lover? All the 'princess' talk?”

She shoots Ronan a meaningful look.

“You’re asking if we fucked.”

“… Noah told me he asked if you were usually on top.”

“Oh god,” Ronan groans. “You’re not just asking if we fucked. You want to know if he  _ fucked _ me.”

Adam and Gansey drop the pretense of carrying on their former conversation and turn their heads. Gansey’s face is beet red, and Blue’s is no better from where it’s hid behind her hands.

Ronan just laughs.

“In his dreams, maybe. You couldn’t pay me enough for that.”

“Only because you don’t need the money,” Gansey laughs, and Adam’s gut churns uncomfortably.

 

4.

It’s not the first time they’ve kissed.

No, that milestone belongs to the sleek interior of the BMW, where Ronan dropped Adam off at St. Agnes and sat, silent in the driver’s seat. With the sweltering heat and the absence of abrasive electronica, the silence was another thing stifling, and there was Ronan biting his lip, staring at Adam like he could consume him. Adam doesn’t know the expression on his own face, just the realization that Ronan would never make the first move, not here, not when it involved Adam Parrish, a boy who’d had so many things taken from him already. Ronan’s consideration that he could steal something Adam wanted so badly to give away was laughable, but Adam awarded it, and pressed his lips onto Ronan’s.

There is no trepidation in this kiss here.

Gansey’s not home, Noah’s conspicuously absent. They’re making out in Ronan’s room, on his unkempt sheets, with the familiarity of two bodies that have sought each other numerous times, in the barns, in the dark, in the scarce minutes of the morning. The present sees Adam with his back up against Ronan’s headboard. It’s times like these where Adam’s not thinking about temporality, about where they’re going or where they’ve gone. He starts and ends at the point their bodies meet, where Ronan’s mouth plunders his own. It’s a request he’ll admit entrance to any time. He wonders if he should hate himself for this, he wonders if Ronan does. They’ve got all their clothes on; Ronan’s got his legs spread astride Adam’s lap, his mouth devouring, but his body tight with restraint, like Ronan’s intentionally avoiding the urge to grind down, to give Adam the friction he craves. They pull apart for a breath, and Adam arches his back to chase Ronan’s open lips, lays a hand over his jean-clad ass and squeezes slightly, to feel him, to bring him down a bit so that they can kiss more comfortably.

Ronan smirks, “hands off the goods, Parrish.”

Adam snorts, moves his hands to Ronan’s lower back instead, and keeps kissing him anyway.

 

3.

Ronan’s fucking into him with slow, steady drags, and Adam feels like he’s drowning.

They’re seventeen. Like any seventeen-year-old boy, Adam’s entertained a million different scenarios for losing his virginity. None of them are at all like the reality. In the past, it’d been girls. Girls with blonde hair, or brown hair. Girls with dark eyes, or light. That woman who came into the shop with the blown tire, skin sun-kissed and hair wavy, with some stateside accent Adam couldn’t place. She wore jean shorts and an orange spaghetti-strap tank top, and Adam fantasized about her for a week. Sometimes the girls had unfamiliar features; they writhe under him, but don’t speak his name. Now it’s Adam writhing.

Men had never quite factored into the equation; sure, Adam had closed his eyes and dreamt of kissing chapped lips, men who would leave stubble-burn and his throat parched. But he never thought it was something he could have; it was just another thing to keep secret from his parents, another reason for them to hate him.

But then there’s Ronan Lynch, and there’s nothing that boy does that he doesn’t put his back into. Adam’s brain short-circuits when Ronan so much as puts a hand on his cock. And they do it in steps, they do it like Adam’s a Catholic schoolgirl and Ronan’s a boy too nervous to put a hand on Adam’s knee. Adam initiates the start of every sexual stage, and Ronan follows with zeal, but like he’s too hesitant to take it further, like Adam has him on a leash. It’s a thought that in equal parts electrifies and frustrates Adam, the notion that Ronan lives by his every whim. Adam knows it’s not true, but it doesn’t mean there’s no truth to it. He thinks of their first kiss in the Beamer. It’s Adam who first snakes a hand into Ronan’s pants; Adam, who got down on the floor of his shoddy apartment, kissed his way down Ronan’s body, blew him on the thin comforter in the midnight hour. Adam sort of always assumed it’d be him to start this, too, to take advantage of an empty afternoon in Monmouth Manufacturing and hand Ronan a bottle of lube. Fantasy!Adam is confident, he’s cocky, he says “prep yourself,” and not long after, Ronan sinks down on his dick with a dirty grin.

In reality, that’s not how it goes. It’s night and they’re in Ronan’s room. Adam's flat on his back this time, Ronan’s body covering him like a hood blankets a car’s engine; Adam’s beneath him, raring, and Ronan smothers his movements, inhibits them to the extent he’ll allow. It seems to Adam like they spend most of their time alone, attached at the mouth.

Ronan bites down on the lobe of Adam’s good ear.

“Let me fuck you.”

Adam is powerless to say no, and he doesn’t want to anyway. He shivers, lets out a breathy yes, and Ronan stretches him open with large fingers and a liberal coating of lube.

Adam has a brief moment, somewhere between the first and second fingers, where he thinks maybe they should talk about this, because they haven’t and it’s been a solid two months of sneaking kisses and orgasms where no one will know. Gansey sure as hell doesn’t, and neither does Blue. Noah must. But it’s already late July and Adam’s not fucking with anyone else. He doesn’t think Ronan is either, not with the way they spend all their time in a group, and the rest of their time wrapped up in each other. Ronan crooks his finger, hits his prostate, and Adam stops thinking; it’s a conversation for some other time.

Sure, he never gave it much thought before, but think sex and Ronan Lynch and you don’t think of this. It’s something Adam’s not yet willing to put a name to. When Ronan pushes in, Adam clamps his eyes shut and bites his lip. It hurts, of course it does. It doesn't mean he doesn't want this.

“Adam. Adam, I can stop. We don’t have to –“

“Go.” Adam grits out and opens his eyes.

And Ronan drives in.

“You’re good,” Adam gasps. He taps Ronan’s upper back in a universal sign of  _ keep going _ and Ronan huffs out a laugh.

And Ronan does, in measured strokes. Adam’s folded in on himself and Ronan has one hand hitching up Adam’s thigh in support, and another on the mattress, keeping himself upright. His pace is still steady, but it doesn’t feel like he’s holding back, and Adam appreciates that. Appreciates that Ronan’s so alert to Adam’s comfort while still seeking his own gratification.

It feels like hours of suspended pleasure before Ronan moves his hand from Adam’s thigh to his dick, shifts his angle slightly, and bends his head down. But now Adam’s gasping, scrabbling for purchase on Ronan’s inked skin, digging his blunt fingernails into the spaces that his fingers can reach.

“Adam,” Ronan groans, kisses the height of his cheekbone.

“You’re fucking perfect, Adam Parrish.”

“Fuck. Shit. Ronan.”

Adam comes, clenches his muscles, and Ronan empties into the condom a few seconds afterward, exhaling Adam’s name like it’s something holy.

There’s no afterglow, really. Ronan pulls out and walks shakily over to the wastebasket to dispose of the condom. With the state of his room, and the sanitation (or lack thereof) of Monmouth as a whole, Adam’s surprised he showed himself that courtesy. But when Ronan makes his way back to the bed, he collapses beside Adam, both their arms spread, both breathing heavily. Adam himself lies there lightheaded on the mattress, feeling stretched and utterly used in a way he never imagined. 

Good though, he feels good. He knows he’ll be sore tomorrow morning, but it’s an ache he’ll carry with pride and the secret smugness of someone who just got laid.

He says, “your turn next time, Lynch,” and turns his head, but Ronan’s already asleep.

 

2.

Adam isn’t exactly fond of getting to his knees on the cold tiled floor – God knows how long it’s been since someone cleaned it. But he’s more than into the sights that go along with it.

It’s definitely not the first time Adam Parrish has blown Ronan Lynch. Not with the way Ronan’s eyes widen, light up in recognition, when Adam kisses the underside of his jaw and drops gently to Ronan’s feet. And look, objectively, Adam knows there’s no such thing as a bad blowjob as long as there’s no teeth involved. There’s no man that’s going to say no to getting his dick wet, and Ronan, for all his self-restraint, is no exception. Ronan comes down Adam’s throat every goddamn time, and that should be assurance enough, but there’s always going to be a little bit of insecurity when Ronan gives head like he’s going for Olympic gold; has Adam going off like he’s a fucking firecracker, thrown roughly to the pavement and exploding in a haze of sparks and colours. They dance beneath Adam’s eyelids.

Last time, Adam came on Ronan’s face – much sooner than he would care to admit – and Ronan knelt there obediently. Adam’s dick still twitches when his mind recalls the memory unbidden: Ronan’s long, dark eyelashes fanned across his pale skin, pearly drops streaking swollen lips, his stubbly cheeks, chin. Adam gets the feeling that Ronan’s had other partners. He’s too notably skilled to chalk it up to some innate natural talent. But Ronan hasn’t told him and Adam doesn’t want to know. It doesn’t mean they’re not figuring it out together.

But here they are, and there Adam is, about to suck dick in the bathroom/kitchen/laundry. He wants to laugh.  The only way this could have been more cliché is if Ronan had sat on the fucking washer before Adam lowered himself to the cool ground, so that the machine could vibrate beneath him, to the cadence of his moans. He’s leaning against it instead.

He divests Ronan of his black jeans rather quickly. Undoes the button with practiced ease, glides the zipper down its metal teeth, and Ronan lifts his hips so that his pants will slide down his legs easily. Boxers next, and then Ronan’s kicking them to the side with his foot; he touches Adam’s shoulder, pulls slightly on the worn fabric of Adam’s t-shirt and says “take this off.” Adam does, hastily, and has the foresight to unbuckle his own jeans, loosening the pressure on his cock that’s already hardening beneath his clothes. Ronan draws Adam closer to him, and Adam acquiesces, shuffling his knees to get nearer to Ronan’s bare skin. Adam loves it all, not just what their bodies do in the dark, in the bedroom, in the mid-afternoon, but everything else that’s left unsaid, like the way Ronan craves naked skin on skin contact at any point they can touch, and how it makes Adam feel interminable, desirable. A boy who looks like  _ that _ , looks at  _ you _ like  _ that _ , Adam tells himself, somewhat incoherently. Ronan can dream almost anything he wants, but what he wants more than dreams is Adam Parrish. There’s power in that, Adam knows. And Adam’s more than willing to give, give, give, and every part of him revels in the taking – of Ronan’s clothes off his body, of the greedy looks, of the desperate sounds that fall splendidly from his plush lips.

There are times when he thinks, selfishly, that Ronan Lynch may be the best thing that has ever happened to him. There are times when he knows. He brings his face to rest in the taut space below Ronan’s navel, breathes in. There’s a trail of dark, coarse hair that leads from his belly button to his pubic hair, and then there’s Ronan’s dick. It’s flush, it’s hard, and it’s darker than the rest of his body, purpled with the blood that rushes from elsewhere to gather at his arousal. Another part of Ronan that he’s had inside him, another part of Ronan he loves.

“Stop fucking around, Adam.”

Adam loves how when Ronan’s at his mercy, it’s always “Adam,” never “Parrish,” and Ronan reminds him time and time again.  _ Adam, Adam, Adam _ .

Adam lowers his head, finally, and sucks the tip into his mouth. From there on it’s all sensation. It’s hard to think with a dick in your mouth, so Adam focuses on the slide of his lips along the hot length of Ronan’s flesh, gets a hand around the base to better guide him– up, down. Up, down. Ronan’s always reduced to such primordial sounds, but always so careful to prevent himself from thrusting too hard, fucking Adam’s mouth. Sometimes Adam wishes he would.

Adam pulls off Ronan’s cock for just a moment, lets it bob against his cheek. The head leaves a trail of precome where it touches Adam’s skin, and Ronan growls above him.

“Spread your legs,” Adam croaks, voice hoarse. Ronan complies.

Ronan relaxes a fist from where it’s clenched and moves to card a hand through Adam’s hair. Adam puts one hand on the back of Ronan’s thigh, steadying him, before licking a stripe up the underside of his dick, and then taking him back into his mouth.

Adam doesn’t know what possesses him. He doesn’t need to look back in retrospect to know that he should have asked first. His hand has already moved from Ronan’s thigh to his ass, and it’s met with no complaints, but Ronan’s made it pretty clear in the past, Adam thinks, that he’s never had this, never wanted it, at least not to Adam’s knowledge.

But Adam slides his index finger between Ronan’s cheeks anyway, presses lightly on his hole where there’s a little resistance from Ronan’s body, circles the rim, and Ronan fucking loses it.

“Adam,” he groans, and floods Adam’s mouth.

Adam takes it, swallows, and stands to meet Ronan’s body from where it’s sagged against the appliance, eyes still closed and mouth still open. Adam ghosts his lips over Ronan’s before moving in, lets Ronan taste himself.

It’s several minutes before Ronan can even think of repaying the favour.

  
1.

Ronan’s body isn’t soft beneath Adam’s. Together they’re all hard lines and deep moans dragged from both their throats. Adam’s dick is leaving a trail of arousal in the hollow of Ronan’s hip, and Ronan’s does the same on Adam’s abdomen. There’s a sort of urgency in the way they’re rutting against each other, with how Ronan has fingers indenting their shape onto Adam’s ass, with how they’re trying to get closer, closer.

The sweat between them makes the slide of their cocks all the easier. Adam’s orgasm is on the precipice, and he can tell Ronan’s is too, by the way his pale face is flushed, the way his teeth catch on his bottom lip.

Adam can tell the moment Ronan’s about to make a move to flip them, but Ronan stalls and Adam lays a hand on Ronan’s sternum to keep his back flat against the mattress. 

“Stay,” Adam says, and Ronan stays put.

Adam moves himself onto an elbow, mirrors the position Ronan executed so effortlessly as he drove into Adam that first time. He shivers when he recalls the memory, imagines it the other way around. Adam adjusts his body, reaches a hand between them and grips both their dicks in a confident palm.

Adam concentrates on both their cocks, on pumping them, on drawing more noises from Ronan’s lips, yielding some of his own.

“I wanna fuck you,” he blurts out.

Ronan doesn’t push him away like Adam worried he might. He just tightens his grip on Adam’s bicep and moans. And Adam, well, once the words are out, it’s like he can’t stop.

“I think about it all the time.”  When they first started whatever it is they have now, Adam was self-conscious about how he’d have to choke back nonsensical words, dirty fantasies, every time they did this. They don’t bother with holding back anymore.

“Fuck, Adam.”

“Sometimes I feel your body twitch in bed, when I trace your tattoo with my finger.”

Ronan says nothing, just lets out wordless gasps.

“I want to be behind you, Ronan, or,” another grunt, Adam’s this time, “I want your legs hooked around my waist.”

Adam shudders, spilling between them. His hand picks up speed on Ronan's cock; he keeps running his mouth.

“Ronan. I want you any way you’ll let me have you.”

When he thumbs his finger over Ronan’s cockhead, Ronan comes so hard he blacks out for a moment.

Neither of one of them mention it afterward. 

 

               +1

Weeks pass without incident. Adam has heard that what’s said during sex is sacred, that it’s not brought up outside the bedroom. Well, it’s not brought up inside either, neither Ronan nor Adam ready to rehash what Adam so unabashedly said above him.

There’s been ample opportunity. Adam doesn’t keep track of the amount of times they fuck, but he remembers at least one slow Sunday blowjob, and getting fucked in the shower, face pressed to the wet wall tiles. 

Adam’s not thinking about it when there’s a knock at his door; he’s reading Hamlet for his English lit class, sitting on the bed on his studio apartment over the church.

Adam doesn’t need a Sargents’ connection to the psychic world to know it’s Ronan at the door, and Ronan’s lips are on him in a second when he opens it, grabbing Adam’s arm and in one deft move spinning him to be the one with his back against the it. 

“Do you have condoms in this hell hole?”

“Yes,” Adam moans, Ronan’s teeth at his neck now.

“Lube?”

These questions are stupid. “Ronan, what-”

“Get them, and get on the bed.”

Adam’s belly jumps with the knowledge of what comes next, but Ronan’s eyes are wild like he hasn’t seen since the nights of street-racing and Kavinsky. He grabs what he needs from his bedside table. Sitting up on the mattress, Adam looks at Ronan, who shucks out of his clothes and smooths a palm over his buzz cut.

Ronan moves toward the bed to straddle Adam’s lap, gets his hands under the fabric of Adam’s shirt. As the shirt comes over his head, Adam drops the foil packet and lube by his side. It’s barely been anything but the kiss against the door, but Adam’s dick tents his sweatpants as Ronan’s lips bruise his, and his left hand grips Ronan’s hip. It’s not unlike the time in Ronan’s room, months ago, except this time when Adam puts his hand on Ronan’s ass, Ronan doesn’t joke, and he doesn’t move Adam’s wandering hands.

Ronan pulls his mouth away. “You want to have it, don’t you?”

“Have - what?” Adam says, hand trying to draw Ronan’s head back toward his.

“Me. You want to have me.”

Adam’s cock twitches as it clicks into place. Ronan didn’t forget, and Adam didn’t either.

“These sweatpants, off. I need them off.”

Adam makes quick work of his remaining clothes, and then there’s nothing separating their bodies, just skin on skin. Ronan grabs the condom and pushes it into Adam’s hand, takes the lube himself, and coats his fingers liberally.

“Do you want me to-”

“No,” Ronan says, his tone one of finality. As much as Adam was hoping he’d be the one stretching Ronan open, Ronan is undeniably beautiful like this, prepping himself for Adam’s cock, trying not to make noise. Adam understands not wanting to give up control,  _ loves  _ the determination in Ronan’s features. And can’t deny how his blood roars as Ronan’s hand dips behind his back, when Ronan’s breath hitches into their kiss. Adam gets the condom on, and his hand grips his base.

When Ronan’s ready, he pushes Adam back into the mattress, looks down at Adam with his burning eyes. With one hand on Adam’s chest and the other on his cock, Ronan sinks down, so slow Adam feels like he’s delirious. To stay still is excruciating, but Adam lets Ronan adjust, watches as his eyes fall closed and he draws in a shaky breath. The feeling is - god, it’s ineffable, Adam doesn’t have the words to describe it. Tight, tight heat and power. Adam thumbs a nipple, runs a hand down Ronan’s side, lets it rest on his hip, eyes on his strong thighs as he takes more of Adam’s cock, and his erection that hasn’t flagged in the time between. It feels like an age before Ronan is fully seated.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Ronan’s voice is low. And then he moves, small gasps as he establishes a rhythm. His face glistens, his mouth falls open, and as he picks up speed, Adam begins thrusting up, watching as his mouth falls open.

He’s beautiful, utterly debauched.

“Is this how it feels-” _ for you?  _ goes unsaid, lost in a moan and Adam’s ensuing  _ yes yes yes _ , as he moves his hand to jerk Ronan off. Adam moves with more deliberation and Ronan comes like that, Adam’s eyes on his, Adam’s hand on his dick, orgasm spurting onto Adam’s fingers and stomach. Adam fucks him through his orgasm, and then there’s heat and light and Adam’s hips stuttering as he draws low whimpers from Ronan and spills into the condom.

Unwilling or unable to move, they lie that way until Ronan collects himself, slowly lifting off of Adam.

“Well shit,” Ronan says, wincing, and Adam knows that feeling, the emptiness and the last aftershocks of orgasm. And he can’t stop thinking that he did that; the filthy noises, the slap of skin, the come drying on his abdomen. The way Ronan looks at him, dirty smirk on a mouth bruised pink from kisses and glassy-eyed from his orgasm… Adam thinks it’s a goddamn masterpiece. He wants to open his mouth, say something,  _ thank you _ , maybe, or that Ronan Lynch should be fucked well, and often. But this thing that they have, it’s a great, secret, soft thing.

“Parrish, I swear to god, if you thank me right now… you don’t know half of what I’ve thought.”

  
  
  



End file.
